Now that she was cooking a meal for six she fiddled with the menu as she shopped. She made a good roast chicken with garlic and sage and rosemary, and she could make some red potatoes in that zingy dressing she cut out of a magazine, the carrots in butter and thyme Callie liked so much, and some peas. And she’d make biscuits.
Richard hadn’t cared for her biscuits, called them hick bread, she remembered.
Well, the hell with him.
Maybe she’d make some appetizers, really do it up. And profiteroles for dessert. The cook they’d had three times a week in Atlanta had shown her how to make them.
She loaded up ingredients, bribed Callie with animal crackers. And tried not to swallow out loud when she checked out.
For family, she reminded herself as she counted out the money. Family was putting a roof over her head, and her daughter’s. She could and would afford to pay for a good family dinner.
It wasn’t until she wheeled the cart and stroller outside that she remembered she’d walked.
“Oh, for God’s sake, how stupid am I?”
Three bags of groceries, a stroller and a mile-and-a-half walk.
Muttering to herself, she crammed two bags in the back of the stroller, slung the big Callie bag over one shoulder and hefted the last grocery bag.
She switched arms at the half-mile mark, seriously considered calling her mother, or poking into the sheriff’s office to see if Forrest was there and could give her a ride.
“We’ll make it. We’ll make it fine.”
She thought back to when she’d run the mile into town, and back again, as a child. Up and down those hills, around those curves.
Well, now she had a child, and three bags of groceries. And she might be working up a blister on her heel.
She made it to the fork, arms aching, and stopped to gather herself for the last leg.
The Fix-It Guys truck pulled up beside her. Griff leaned out the window.
“Hey. Did your car break down? Griff,” he added, in case she’d forgotten. “Griffin Lott.”
“I remember. No, my car didn’t break down. I didn’t take the damn car because I wasn’t intending to buy so many groceries.”
“Damn car,” Callie said to Fifi, and had Shelby sighing.
“Okay. Want a ride home?”
“More, at this moment, than I want a long and happy life. But . . .”
“I get you only met me yesterday, but Emma Kate’s known me for a couple years. I’d be in jail if I were an ax murderer. Hey, cutie. Is your name Callie?”
“Callie.” The little girl angled her head, an accomplished flirt, and fluffed at her new hairdo. “I’m pretty.”
“As pretty as they come. Look, I can’t leave you by the side of the road with the pretty girl and three bags of groceries.”
“I was going to say I want a ride, but you don’t have a car seat.”
“Oh. Right.” He shoved a hand at his hair. “We’ll break the law, but it’s less than a mile, and I’ll drive slow. I’ll pull over anytime another car’s coming, either direction.”
Her heel burned, her arms ached and her legs felt like rubber stretched too hard and long. “I think driving slow’s going to be enough.”
“Hold on. Let me help you.”
That made the second person who wasn’t family in the last little while who’d offered to help her. It was hard to remember how long before that anyone had.
He got out of the truck, took the bag from her. Feeling came back into her arm in pins and needles.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
He stowed the groceries while she lifted Callie out. “You sit right there,” Shelby told Callie. “Sit still while I fold up the stroller.”
“How does it— Oh, I get it.” Griff folded the stroller as if he’d been doing so for years.
She turned back to Callie as he stowed it, and saw her daughter had opened a takeout bag sitting on the seat beside her.
She was now eating french fries.
“Callie! Those aren’t yours.”
“I’m hungry, Mama.”
“It’s okay.” Laughing, Griff got in the truck. “I wouldn’t trust anybody who could resist fries. I had to pick up some stuff in town, grabbed lunch for me and Matt while I was at it. She can have some fries.”
“It’s past her lunchtime. I didn’t expect to be gone so long.”
“Didn’t you grow up here?”
She took a deep breath as he drove—true to his word—at about twenty miles an hour. “I should’ve known better.”
Now sitting on her lap, Callie held out a fry to Griff.
“Thanks. You look like your mother.”
“Mama’s hair.”
“Yours is really pretty. Have you been to Miz Vi’s?”
“That’s Granny, Callie. Miz Vi’s Granny.”
“Granny did my hair like a princess. I’m pretty and smart and kind.”
“I can see that. You’re the first princess I’ve had in my truck, so this is a pretty big deal for me. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Fifi. She likes french fries.”
“I would hope so.” He eased into the driveway. “Whew.” He took a mock swipe at his forehead. “Made it. You get the princess and her carriage. I’ll get the groceries.”
“Oh, that’s all right, I can—”
“Haul in three bags of groceries, a kid, a stroller and whatever’s in that suitcase you’ve got there? Sure you can, but I’ll get the groceries.”
“You carry me!” Callie shoved out of Shelby’s arms, threw herself at Griff.
“Callie, don’t—”
“I’ve got my orders.” He climbed out, crouched down, tapped his back. “Okay, princess, climb aboard.”
Callie said, “Whee,” and hooked herself on for a piggyback while Shelby scrambled out the other door to try to heft whatever was left.
He beat her to it, pulled out two grocery bags, and with one in each arm, her daughter bouncing gleefully on his back, headed to the front door.
“Is it locked?”
“I don’t think so. Mama may have . . .” She trailed off as he was already going inside, Callie clinging to his neck and chattering in his ear like he was her new best friend.
Flustered, Shelby pulled out the stroller, got the last bag, swung her Callie bag on her shoulder. She managed to get it all in the house, left the stroller by the door to deal with later.
He’d set the bags on the island. Before she could speak, he stopped her heart by swinging Callie off his back, dangling her upside down while she squealed in insane delight, then tossed her up in the air, catching her neatly. And settled her on his hip.
“I love you,” Callie said, and kissed him enthusiastically on the mouth.
“Is that all it takes?” Grinning, he gave her hair a tug. “Obviously I’ve been going about my conquests the wrong way for a lot of years.”
“You stay and play with me.”
“Would if I could, but I’ve got to get back to work.”
Callie took a hank of his hair, obviously finding it to her liking, and wound it around her finger. “You come back and play with me.”
“Sure, sometime.” He looked over at Shelby, smiled, and since she was staring, she saw he had eyes as green and clever as a cat’s. “You’ve got a keeper here.”
“She is. Thank you. Ah, do you have children?”
“Me? No.” He set Callie down, gave her a friendly pat on the butt. “Gotta go, Little Red.”
She wrapped her arms around his legs in a hug. “Bye, mister.”
“Griff. Just Griff.”
“Gwiff.”
“Grrr-iff,” Shelby corrected automatically.
“Grrr,” Callie said, and giggled.
“Grrr-iff’s gotta go,
” he said, glanced back at Shelby. “You set?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you so much.”
“No problem.” He started out. “Love this kitchen,” he added, and strode to the door and out—he did have a swagger about him—before she could think of anything else.
“Grrr-iff,” Callie told Fifi. “He’s pretty, Mama, and he smells good. He’s going to come back and play with me.”
“I . . . umm. Huh.”
“I’m hungry, Mama.”
“What? Oh. Of course you are.” Giving herself a shake, Shelby got back to reality.
8
By the time her mother got home, Shelby had the chicken in the oven, the potatoes and carrots scrubbed, and the dining room table—used only for important meals—set with the good dishes.
Not the best dishes, which were her father’s grandmother’s and worth more in sentiment than money, but the company dishes with the roses around the rims.
She’d added linen napkins, folding them into fussy standing fans, rearranged candles and flowers into a pretty centerpiece, and was finishing the last of the pastries for the profiteroles.
“Oh my goodness, Shelby! The table looks just beautiful, like for a high-class dinner party.”
“We are high class.”
“We’re sure going to eat like we are—and it smells wonderful in here. You always were one to know just how things should go together to look pretty.”
“It’s fun, fussing a little. I hope it’s all right I asked Granny and Grandpa to come.”
“You know it is. Mama told me when I stopped into Vi’s after my garden club meeting—and after Suzannah and I did a little shopping. I got Callie the cutest outfits for spring. I had the best time.”
She set three shopping bags on the counter, began to pull things out. “I can’t wait to see her wearing this—it’s just precious, isn’t it? The little skirt with the pink and white stripes, and the frilly shirt. And these pink Mary Janes! Now, I checked her size before I left, so they should fit. But if they don’t, we’ll just take them back.”
“Mama, she’ll love those. She’ll just go crazy for those shoes.”
“And I got this cute shirt with ‘Princess’ on it, and the sweetest little white cardigan sweater with ribbon trim.” She pulled more out as she talked. “Where is she? Maybe she can try some on.”
“She’s napping. I’m sorry she’s napping so late, but it all took me longer, and then I had to fix her lunch, and she was revved up, so I didn’t get her down until almost three.”
“Oh, we won’t worry about that. So I stopped into Vi’s, and there was Maxine Pinkett—you remember she moved to Arkansas a few years ago, but she was back visiting, and came into Vi’s hoping I could give her a cut and color. I don’t do hair anymore as a rule, but she’s an old customer, and I know what she likes.”
Shelby had a misty memory of Mrs. Pinkett, so made assenting noises as she began to fill the pastries with cream.
“She told me that she was disappointed when Crystal told her I was off, then I walked in, and she asked if I couldn’t please see to her hair. She’s not happy at all with the stylists she’s tried in Little Rock. So I set her up. Turns out her daughter’s husband may take a job in Ohio now, and this after she moved to Little Rock to be close by her daughter and three grandchildren. She’s in a state, let me tell you. I know just how she feels, so I . . .”
Ada Mae shut her eyes, gave herself a shake. “I can’t keep my mouth shut with a stapler.”
“You don’t have to. You didn’t get to make many memories with Callie for more than three years. And more, I see now, she didn’t get to make them with you. That’s on me, Mama.”
“It’s all over and done now, and we’re making plenty of memories all around. What are you making there? Little cream puffs? Oh, she’s awake.” Ada Mae looked toward the baby monitor on the counter. “I’m going to take her new things up, and we’ll have some fun. You need help here, honey?”
“I don’t, Mama, thanks. I don’t want you to do a thing but sit down to this meal. You go have fun with Callie.”
“Oh, I hope the pink Mary Janes fit, ’cause they couldn’t be cuter.”
She’d take pictures of Callie in the pink Mary Janes, Shelby thought. Callie might not remember them when she grew up, but she’d remember her grandmother loved her, enjoyed getting her pretty clothes. She’d remember her granny had fixed her hair like a princess.
That’s what counted. Like a good family dinner at the dining room table, that’s what counted.
She finished the pastries, basted the chicken, got the potatoes and carrots going.
She needed to change, not only for dinner, but to go out and meet Emma Kate. With a glance at the timer, she ran upstairs, tiptoed from the landing to her room so she didn’t distract Callie and her mother and their fashion show.
And spent the next fifteen minutes agonizing over what to wear. She’d once had three, maybe even four times as many clothes, and had never agonized.
Maybe, she thought, because it had stopped being important.
It was the bar and grill, she reminded herself. People didn’t dress up especially to go there. It was at least three giant steps up from Shady’s, but about an equal amount down from the big restaurant at the hotel.
She settled on black jeans, a simple white shirt. And she’d put the leather jacket she’d kept—one she just loved—over it. The pewter gray went well with her hair, and wasn’t as harsh as black.
Since the evenings ran cool yet, she chose heeled half boots.
Mindful of the meal, she slipped straight back down and into the kitchen, grabbed an apron this time to start on the biscuits.
It was fun to fuss, she thought, and after hunting up a pretty platter for the chicken, stood trying to imagine if it would look better if she laid the potatoes and carrots around the chicken or if she put them in bowls.
Forrest came in the back door.
“What’s all this?” He sniffed the air. “What is that?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong. It smells like . . . It smells like I’m hungry.”
“You can stay for dinner if you want. Granny and Grandpa are coming. I’m cooking.”
“You’re cooking?”
“That’s right, Forrest Jackson Pomeroy, so take it or leave it.”
“Do you always get dressed up to cook dinner?”
“I’m not dressed up. Hell. Am I too dressed up to go to Bootlegger’s?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because, you idiot, I’m going to Bootlegger’s and I don’t want to dress wrong.”
“I meant why are you going to the bar and grill when you’re fixing dinner?”
“I’m going after dinner, if you need every detail of it. I’m meeting Emma Kate.”
His face cleared. “Oh.”
“Am I too dressed up or not?”
“You’re okay.” He opened the top oven, peered in at the chicken. “That looks damn good.”
“It will be damn good. Now stay out of the way. I need to set out the appetizers.”
“Aren’t we fancy?” He stepped around her, got himself a beer.
“I just want it to be nice. Mama’s getting me massages, and Granny’s fixing Callie’s hair, and—you saw how they fixed the rooms upstairs for us. I just want it to be nice.”
He gave her shoulder a rub. “It is nice. The table looks like a company meal. It’s good you’re meeting Emma Kate.”
“We’ll see how good when I do. She’s still awful mad at me.”
“Maybe you should fix her a chicken dinner.”
It felt good to have her family around the table enjoying a meal she’d made. And made her realize it was the first time. There’d be a second time, she promised herself, and she’d make sure C
lay and Gilly and little Jackson were around the table that next time.
She knew she’d done well when her grandfather had seconds of everything—and Granny asked for the recipes.
“I’ll write them out for you, Granny.”
“You’ll want to do it twice.” Ada Mae got up to help clear. “That chicken put mine to shame.”
“You’d better’ve saved room for dessert.”
“We’ve got room, don’t we, Callie?” Jack patted his belly so Callie leaned back in her booster chair to pat hers.
The best was watching eyes go big when she came in carrying the tower of profiteroles she’d made, with their topping of melted chocolate.
“That’s as pretty as anything you’d see in a restaurant,” her father told her. “Is it as good as it looks?”
“You’re going to find out. I need to go, so Mama, would you serve this up? I don’t want to be late.”
“You don’t go till you’ve put on some lipstick.” This was her grandmother’s decree. “Something with a little pink it in. It’s spring.”
“All right. Make Forrest help with the dishes.”
“I was going to,” he said immediately. He grabbed her hand when she bent over to kiss Callie. “It was a real good meal, Shelby. Don’t drink and drive.”
“You’re the one with a beer on the table. Callie, you be a good girl.”
“Gamma said I get a bath with bubbles.”
“Won’t that be fun? I won’t be late.”
“Oh, be late.” Ada Mae served up generous portions of pastry. “Go have some fun.”
“I will. Don’t—”
“Scat!”
“All right.”
It felt odd going out at night, on her own. And then add in the nerves, the worry that Emma Kate wouldn’t forgive her.
But she put on lipstick, added a little more blush for good measure. And drove to town hoping she’d find the right words, make the right penance to get her best friend back in her life.
The streetlights gleamed, and she caught a few lights glimmering in the mountains. Shops shut down by six, but she noted Pizzateria was doing good business, and a few people strolled along the sidewalk.
She found the stingy parking lot beside the bar and grill already jammed, started hunting up a place on the street. Maybe she had to give herself a mental push to get out of the car, but she did it, and walked the half block down, opened the door, stepped into the noise.
The Liar Page 12